


A Life Saved is a Lifetime Debt

by Astronomical_Aphrodite



Series: Everything Stays [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bear Attack, Character Death Fix, Gen, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Kieran Duffy Is Baby, M/M, Pre-Relationship, The Battle of Shady Belle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22868536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astronomical_Aphrodite/pseuds/Astronomical_Aphrodite
Summary: Five times that Kieran saved Arthur’s clumsy ass, and the one time that Arthur returned the favor.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Van der Linde Gang, Kieran Duffy & Arthur Morgan, Kieran Duffy/Arthur Morgan
Series: Everything Stays [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643872
Comments: 6
Kudos: 146





	A Life Saved is a Lifetime Debt

**_Six Point Cabin_ **

He should’ve known that there’d be a massacre at Six Point Cabin.

There were at least two dozen O’Driscoll boys there, and after he’d fucked up killing the guards, they’d all been alerted to their presence. He’d whipped out his revolver and started gunning them down, his accuracy never failing him, but for every one that fell, another joined the fight.

Eventually, it was whittled down to several men hiding in the trees, and he charged forwards, ducking behind cover as he picked them off. Some of them started deserting, running away from the cabin, and Arthur holstered his weapon. “They’re turning tail,” John pointed out irately, watching them leave with a bitter look in his eye, and Arthur patter his shoulder.

“Let ‘em,” he said, walking towards the cabin. Abandoned and littered with fresh bodies, he stepped over a man bleeding out in the grass without a second thought, eyes fixed on his prize. “Colm’s still here.”

“He said he’d be hidin’ in the cabin,” Bill drawled, and Arthur grunted in acknowledgement.

“I’m going to check it,” Arthur assured him. Running around the corner, he scanned the area to ensure nobody was hiding in the bushes or behind any structures, waiting for him to return. “Search out here,” he instructed, “make sure we ain’t missed anything.”

He’d been careless when barging into the main cabin, and a man had opened the door first and knocked him flat onto his ass, back hitting the wooden boards of the front porch.

In the instant he was on the ground, he thought for certain he was going to die, meeting his end at the hands of an O’Driscoll that wasn’t even Colm. The rifle pointed at his face was supposed to be the end, but the bang that followed didn’t come from the weapon. Instead, its wielder toppled backwards with a pained groan as blood splattered against the wall of the cabin, and Arthur was left staring at the sky. When he glanced to his right, the man was dying, clutching a bleeding wound in his side.

Tilting his head up, he found their O’Driscoll with a weapon clutched so unsteadily in his hand that Arthur was surprised he hadn’t missed. Teeth gritted together, he stared at where the man’s body had fallen before swallowing uneasily, still with the weapon pointed towards the open door of the cabin.

“You alright, mister?” The O’Driscoll asked uneasily, and he huffed, blushing while the back of his head thumped against the short wooden staircase.

“Sure,” Arthur drawled flatly, “thank you.”

That damn O’Driscoll had saved his life, and he _hated_ it.

It didn’t help his pride when the scrawny bastard pointedly informed him that members of the O’Driscoll gang tend to hide their stashes in their chimneys.

**_The Horse_ **

Hosea had given Arthur a large, black Shire, and he was sure that the stallion despised him.

Every time that Arthur would approach it, the stallion would snort and fret, feet kicking in the dirt while it shied away from him and tugged at its lead. It wasn’t that Arthur was being rough with it, because he’d approach with offerings of sugar cubes and peppermints and still get shunned, and he was fairly certain it hadn’t been mistreated before, because it was difficult with everybody, even the girls, and it’s flanks didn’t even have marks from spurs.

They were going out hunting, and although he could’ve taken Vanilla, the mahogany bay stallion couldn’t stand gunfire to save a life, and he figured that the Shire would have a higher tolerance for the sounds of shooting. But it was proving him wrong awfully quickly.

“C’mon, boy,” he murmured softly, reaching out towards its neck. It backed away, kicking in the dirt and whinnying while Arthur stopped his approach, backing off. It calmed, then, returning to its previous position, and Arthur tried to strategize. “It’s okay,” he murmured, eyeing the flank by its hindquarters, “I ain’t gonna’ hurt you, boy.”

Edging around the side of the horse, he kept himself in its line of vision to not spook it, although the stallion still tried backing away. He saw it growing agitated, but his hand was so close to its flank, and if he could just touch it, then maybe he could...

“Wait,” Kieran shouted, and moments after he’d tackled him to the ground, the stallion kicked, feet landing in the area right where his face had been. He heard people gasp, and when he stumbled to his feet, glancing around the camp, most everyone was watching in horror. “You don’t just _stand behind horses,_ Arthur,” the former O’Driscoll shouted somewhat hysterically, “because they kick!”

Arthur supposed he’d grown so complacent with his dearly departed Boadicea that he’d forgotten that most horses don’t have temperaments like hers. She was usually so calm and even-tempered, he’d never had to worry about her kicking or throwing him out of her saddle. “ _O’course_ they kick, O’Driscoll,” he blustered to cover his humiliation, and Kieran shrunk back, suddenly demurring to Arthur again. The confidence was gone, replaced with embarrassment.

“Of course, sorry, m-mister,” he stuttered, “ _oh, God,_ I’m so sorry, sir, I shouldn’t have shoved you—”

And there the boy was again, blabbering apologies when they were unnecessary. Arthur felt somewhat guilty for making him think he’d done something wrong, because if he hadn’t shoved him out of the way, then Arthur probably have at least a broken jaw, if not his entire face smashed in. “You’re okay, O’Driscoll,” he interrupted, clapping him on the shoulder. Hands twitching and gaze flying to the point of contact, he paused, mouth hanging open. “I’m more upset over having my ass saved than having you dirty me up a bit.”

“Sorry, mister,” Kieran apologized again, almost impulsively. Most of the crowd had left, reluctant to watch their interaction, and Arthur wished he could simply leave like them. “A-and sorry for apologizing.”

Arthur sighed, pinching his brow. “Don’t I certainly know it,” he muttered under his breath in frustration.

Turning away, Kieran’s attention was suddenly on the stallion, and Arthur watched the lines of concern on his face smooth out. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a peppermint, holding it up in offering. While the black stallion scuffed its hooves against the ground, whinnying anxiously, after a moment of Kieran extending the offering, it bent its head forwards to nuzzle at his hand, accepting the treat. Kieran stroked his hand along the stallion’s flank, and Arthur watched as it bumped its head against the side of his, sniffling at his hair and pressing its nose into his shoulder.

“He’s a sweetheart,” Kieran said with the hint of a laugh, and Arthur felt the gears turning in his brain.

“How would you like him?” Arthur asked slowly, and Kieran’s face lit up.

Later, Hosea would make fun of him for needing the O’Driscoll to take a horse, and Arthur would joke about the old man only being useful as predator bait. He knew that Hosea was glad to see Kieran stroking the massive stallion’s flank, even as Bathory spooked underneath Arthur from a bird flying from the bushes.

_**The Fever** _

The days after Arthur had returned from the O’Driscoll’s camp were spent in and out of a feverish sleep, waking up for short periods of time only to fall unconscious again soon after. He was sweaty and cold, body struggling against the infection in his shoulder, and his whole body ached.

Eventually, his fever broke, and Mary-Beth and Tilly had helped him bathe himself, washing the sweat and grime from his skin while the tent protected him from the harsh light of the afternoon sun.

“I suppose Dutch or John found me,” he mused. It would make sense, considering that they were the first people he remembered seeing when he arrived back at camp.

Tilly shook her head. “It was Kieran, actually,” she said, and Arthur frowned.

“Kieran said that he heard noises,” Mary-Beth explained, dipping her washcloth in the water again. Dragging it over his back in soothing, circular motions, she patted his shoulder comfortingly. “The others almost didn’t believe him, thought he was being paranoid,” she continued, “but well, he insisted. They made him go out on his own, and he found you still on your saddle, although you fell off soon afterwards.”

“If he hadn’t been there, nobody would’ve noticed for a while,” Tilly mused.

It was the third time that Kieran had saved his life, and while Arthur wanted to hate him for it, he didn’t have the energy to summon any sort of vitriol. Closing his eyes with a hum, he relaxed while they cleaned out his wounds and changed his bandages, helping Arthur get himself dressed with only one functioning arm. Guided back to bed, he made a note to thank Kieran later, although he forgot with sleep.

_**The Bear** _

Arthur should’ve know that taking Kieran to the Big Valley was a bad idea.

It had started as a simple request from the man who owned the Scarlet Meadows stable for a decent horse, and Kieran had said that he’d heard rumors of Hungarian Halfbreed horses in West Elizabeth, so Arthur taken him there to show him the location. That, and because Kieran was arguably the better one at breaking them.

But they’d found what seemed to be an abandoned shack, and Arthur never could resist looting whatever he could. But as he stepped forwards, there was a loud roar from somewhere up ahead of them, and Arthur’s pulse quickened, growing nervous while he tried to pinpoint what the sound was coming from. Branwen whinnied anxiously, and even Antoine stirred underneath him, the stubborn Andalusian horse kicking at the dirt underneath him. Arthur couldn’t spot any animals in the area, but he knew that it was bear country, and the thought of a grizzly stalking them wasn’t particularly appealing.

“Sounds like there’s a bear in these woods,” Arthur said, and Kieran gripped his horse’s reins tighter. He knew that the man was protective of Branwen, and understood that he’d be reluctant to leave him, even to protect himself. “I’ll duck inside the cabin,” he assured him, “and you can go on ahead, get out of here before ya’ get eaten, although you’re so stringy that I doubt you’d make a filling meal.”

Kieran puffed up indignantly, blushing while he patted Branwen’s neck. “I’ll wait until you’re finished,” he said instead. Arthur knew he wanted to leave, but he was impressed at his sudden bravery. “You go on ahead, I’ll watch Antoine for you while you search it.”

Dismounting, he approached the cabin slowly, glancing around the woods and keeping an eye out for any lurking predators. He didn’t want to become lunch for a bear or a cougar, especially when Kieran was a flight risk and all of his decent weapons were still on his horse. Climbing the short staircase up onto the porch, he grabbed a cigarette card before turning to push the door open.

When he walked inside, he figured out where the bear had been.

It tackled him immediately, claws digging into his chest, and Arthur shouted in pain, hands fumbling for the weapons still holstered at his sides. But while his pistol was almost within reach, the bear pinned his arms down, strong jaws clamping around the shoulder that was thankfully not the one wounded by the O’Driscoll boys, and he tried shoving it off, but it was four times his size and as many times his weight. Kicking and struggling, he shouted again, but when it opened its bloody mouth again and prepared to rip his face off, with a loud bang it instead received a mouthful of shotgun ammunition.

Breathing heavily, Arthur tried to shove it off, but his arm was weak and he was losing blood fast. Someone rushed forwards to pull him out from underneath the bear, and he didn’t realize it was Kieran until the man was pressing something against his shoulder to staunch the bleeding, expression one of open panic and concern.

“I’m so sorry, mister,” Kieran stuttered, “I should’ve been quicker, gone in first, or something—!”

“You’re okay, O’Driscoll,” Arthur assured him, placing his hand on the man’s arm. He fumbled with something in his pocket, and Arthur’s stomach dropped when he saw that it was a needle and a spool of thread. “You’re real quick with those guns a’ yours.”

“Not particularly,” Kieran mumbled, and Arthur kept the cloth pressed down while he struggled to fit the end of the thread through the eye of the needle with how badly his hands were shaking. “I panicked,” he explained, “and I reacted, that’s all.”

He stitched the massive wound in his shoulder, then the claw marks on his chest, and Arthur knew the scars wouldn’t be pleasant. When they finally started looting the cabin, Arthur skinned the bear while Kieran checked the drawers, first checking the nightstand before moving onto the desk. There was the corpse of a man laying on the bed, body mauled, and a massive hole in the wall where the bear had first crashed through it, and Arthur picked up the fur, straining with how difficult it was.

“Unlucky bastard,” he mused, knowing that his conscience would demand he bury the unfortunate man, even with his shoulder messed up. Arthur figured he could probably convince Kieran to do most of the heavy lifting.

“Hey,” Kieran said, “at least we found that pipe that Dutch was asking for.”

**_The Battle of Shady Belle_ **

Crouched behind a barricade, Arthur reloaded the revolver that he’d stolen from Flaco Hernández, slipping express ammunition into the chamber with a practiced ease. Looking over the barricade, he spotted three men rushing towards his location, and he made quick work of shooting them in their heads, bullets placed neatly into each skull.

There was a reason Arthur was considered to be one of the best marksmen in the western United States.

Rushing across the open area, he took cover behind a tree, killing another one of the Lemoyne Raiders before rushing the mansion of Shady Belle. He ran in a weaving pattern, although someone still managed to graze his side with a bullet that had gotten too close for comfort, and he ducked behind a wagon to collect himself, breathing difficult. He’d found himself increasingly out of breath and wheezy, and he hoped that he wasn’t coming down with something, because he would be needed to help get Jack back from Bronte.

He almost didn’t notice it, the way that Kieran raised his sawed-off shotgun and killed a Raider that had somehow managed to sneak up behind Arthur while he was catching his breath between the mounds of sandbags. The boy shot him and ran, having saved him without any fanfare, and while Arthur watched him run off to help Javier push forwards towards the back of the house, he wondered just when Kieran had truly joined the Van Der Linde gang.

Later that evening, after they’d buried the dead Lemoyne Raiders who used to occupy the land and unpacked their belongings from their wagons, he watched as Kieran helped the horses settle into their new pasture, whispering sweet nothings and grooming their dirtied flanks. Hair tied back from his face, head shaded from the setting sun with a white, wide-brimmed hat, Arthur had the passing thought that he looked handsome, then immediately buried it with the corpses rotting under their feet.

He caught him staring, frowning as he asked if there was a problem, but Arthur shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “Ain’t no problem if you don’t make there be one,” he grumbled, and Kieran rolled his eyes, going back to brushing down Branwen. Arthur hadn’t realized when Kieran had grown comfortable enough to brush him off. “Keep your head low,” he muttered, more for his own dignity than anything else, “and you might survive the week.”

“Alright, see ya’, Arthur,” Kieran said dismissively, although a fond smile curled at his lips.

**_Finally, a Debt Repaid_ **

Jack coming home had restored the life to camp.

The depressed mood and low morale was obvious, with everybody keeping their heads down and snapping at each other. Hardly anyone had left camp, except to look for him or purchase the bare necessities. Abigail was weeping nearly every day he was missing, and John was clearly gutted by losing him. It was like the soul had been ripped from everyone at camp, Arthur included, because that boy was as close to him as a nephew and he’d somehow managed to lose him.

Now that he was back, everything had come back into place. They’d thrown him a massive celebration, filled with dancing and singing, and now, a week later, and everyone is much happier. Even Ms Grimshaw hadn’t been nearly as hard on the girls, and somehow Pearson’s stew managed to taste better. John was trying harder to be a good father to Jack, rather than letting Arthur essentially parent the boy.

Waking up, he stretched his arms, expecting another good day, but Mary-Beth was standing outside his open door, seeming like she felt out of place. Walking up to her, she brightened when she noticed he was awake, hurrying to talk to him. “What’s wrong?” Arthur asked sleepily, and she swallowed.

“I haven’t seen Kieran for a little while, not since the party for Jack,” Mary-Beth commented, hands pulling nervously at her skirts as she stared at the grass beneath them. Her words made Arthur’s breath catch in his throat, stomach turning as he realized he hadn’t, either. “Did he leave camp for something? I know that Dutch has been trusting him more, but Tilly said she thought she saw people sneaking around in the wooded area—“

“Those damn O’Driscolls,” Arthur shouted, and Mary-Beth startled, stumbling backwards away from him. Marching towards Rhiannon, he leapt onto her back, grabbing the reigns. “He wouldn’t be leaving camp on his own, we ain’t trust him that much yet. He’s been taken,” he told her, watching as her eyes widened in fear, “either abducted at that party, or voluntarily left with them, so I’m gonna’ get him back from those bastards.”

“There must’ve been some sneaking around camp,” Mary-Beth concluded.

Checking to ensure his shotgun was still strapped securely to the side of his horse, pistol and revolver in their holsters at his sides, he took a deep breath, turning his horse so that she faced the path away from Shady Belle. “Tell Dutch I’ll come back with Colm’s head on a stake,” he instructed, hands clenching into fists around the reigns until his knuckles turned white. He didn’t wait to hear her response before he was clicking his tongue, prompting her to move forwards.

There weren’t many places in Lemoyne he could think of that the O’Driscoll gang could convert into a hideout, except a few dilapidated mansions and empty towns. He snuck through abandoned buildings, trying to find any sign of habitation, but the most he found was men who fell asleep playing an illicit poker gang in the basement of an old manor, who promptly started shooting at him until he’d hopped onto his horse and ridden away. He grew increasingly desperate, but took solace in that the time between the party and when they’d ambushed them at Shady Belle was several weeks.

In the end, he found them in Pleasance just as the sun was setting. No temporary shelters had been erected, the area lacking tents and wagons, but in the dark of the night, he could see light leaking from boarded-up windows, and the three men standing guard outside weren’t dressed like the Murfree Brood or any of the other local gangs.

“Who goes there?” One of them, a bulky brute with broad shoulders and a worn hat, shouted loudly as he raised his weapon. The others followed suit, and he knew there was no possible solution besides violence. Feet planted firmly on the porch, he seemed confident, not flinching when Arthur clambered off his horse.

Another squinted at him, brows furrowing as he stared at his face pensively. He kept his weapon fixed on him, although his expression turned horrified when he seemed to recognize him. “That’s— Smith,” he managed to stutter, stepping back slightly and lowering the barrel of his shotgun, “he’s Arthur Morgan, one of, um, that Van Der Linde’s boys.”

“Ohh, that cowpoke,” he drawled, still seeming unconcerned. The third seemed to grow nervous, shuffling his feet and clenching his jaw, although he didn’t lower his weapon. Something in Arthur was pleased to know he instilled that sort of fearful reaction in them. “Now why’re you here, Mister Morgan?” He asked, mouth curling up in an amused grin.

“I’m here to collect someone that doesn’t belong to you,” he answered, and the man guffawed.

“That Duffy boy?” He asked, cocking his head. His finger flexed on the trigger of his weapon, seemingly itching to fire. Arthur’s hands hovered subtly over his sidearms, ready to draw whenever necessary. “We’re just returning the favor,” he said, “extracting—“

Arthur was drawing his weapons and shooting him before he even had he chance to finish the sentence, quickly finishing off the other one. The third boy, the one who seemed nervous, fell backwards off the porch into a bush before running in the opposite direction, dropping his weapons in his haste to get away. Arthur didn’t even bother killing him.

There was a commotion inside, and when he walked inside, he slaughtered the men hurriedly gathering their weapons and clothing, having let their guard down in their confidence that nobody would come. Several men tried climbing up the staircase from the basement, but he killed them quickly. Inside of the basement when he headed downstairs, using a corpse as a shield, Colm was there with his weapons drawn and several of his men protecting him.

Arthur’s eyes immediately fell on Kieran, hanging from a plank on the wall by a rope that was tied around his slim wrists. His body was a mess of bruises and cuts, with an awful looking stab would in his stomach that was soaking his pants red, and Arthur clenched his jaw. Somehow, he looked even skinnier than when he had last seen him, hair hanging limply in his face while he looked at him in horror, although hope flickered in his terrified blue eyes.

Dispatching the remaining men of Colm was easy, and when they were down, having only been nicked by several bullets, he disarmed Colm, who spluttered indignantly. “Kill me, fool,” he spat, “don’t just—“

Arthur hit him with the end of his gun, and the man was out like a candle flame, crumpling to the ground. He grabbed the rope from his satchel, tying him up nicely so he couldn’t get up again, and when it was finished, he stood back up with a breath of relief. Colm didn’t deserve a death in combat, he figured, and turning him in alive to the police might warrant a pretty penny.

Turning towards Kieran, strung up by his wrists, he didn’t allow his eyes to wander across his bruised and battered body. Instead, he focused on the wild, panicked look in his eyes, and tried to ignore the way he flinched when Arthur reached out to touch him.

“Sir, please, I didn’t crack,” Kieran slurred, babbling helplessly. Arthur pulled his knife from its holster, and he physically flinched when he lifted it to cut him down from where he was hanging. His knees couldn’t support him when he was cut loose, and Arthur barely caught him when he fell forwards, easily holding his frail, bony body. “They— it’s been days, but I didn’t—“

“I know, Kieran,” Arthur croaked, lifting him up. He buried his face into the crook of Arthur’s neck, going lax in his arms, and Arthur held him underneath his knees and around his hips. Hands loosely curling around Arthur’s suspenders, he breathed shakily, closing his eyes as he choked out a broken sob. “I should’ve noticed you were gone,” he berated himself, “should’ve been out looking for you the morning after the party. Fuck, it’s been six days.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he promised again, too exhausted to continue. Arthur lifted him up onto Rhiannon’s back, and he slumped forwards in the saddle, arms falling around her neck. Grabbing the blanket from his camping gear, he tossed it over his back to protect his shirtless body from the cold, tucking it around him. “Money,” Kieran gasped, “in the chimney—“

“I’ll come back to loot this place later,” Arthur said dismissively, but he shook his head.

“Reinforcements,” he said, voice shallow and raspy, “arriving in the, the morning, Arthur. Get it now.”

Glancing between Kieran and the dilapidated building behind him, two bodies still on the porch, he sighed, shaking his head. “What am I gonna’ do with you, Kieran?” He groused almost fondly, turning to head back into the ramshackle house. Inside, he stepped over bloodied corpses and headed directly to the chimney, reaching up inside. He pulled out a large bag of jewelry and several hundred in dollar bills, a satisfying stash. It would be significant help to the camp, allowing them to purchase more supplies from Saint Denis.

Heading towards the door, he almost forgot to grab the hogtied Colm from the basement. Walking down the staircase, Arthur picked the man up off the ground, glad he wasn’t awake. He had enough to worry about without Colm hammering on to him about divine punishment, his hypocrisy for planning on turning him into the police, or how much he wanted to shove a foot up his ass.

When he stumbled outside of the house, Kieran was still laying on Rhiannon’s back with his eyes closed, although Arthur could still see his back rising and falling with every laborious breath. Tossing Colm’s unconscious body onto the back of his horse and tucking the stash into his saddlebag, he leapt up behind him, wrapping an arm around his waist to ensure he didn’t fall off of his horse. The man didn’t stir, body remaining still in his arms even as Arthur lifted him up so that his back was pressed against his chest.

“You’re so young,” he mused while he encouraged Rhiannon to accelerate into a gallop, panting heavily. Kieran didn’t respond, but Arthur figured he was sleeping, from the slow rise and fall of his chest. The boy probably hadn’t gotten any decent rest in days. “How old are you?” Arthur wondered aloud, words falling on deaf ears. “Twenty-five, maybe a couple years older? Either way, you’re too young to die, not like me.”

Pulling the blanket tighter around Kieran’s skinny body, thankful that Rhiannon knew where she was going, he didn’t find himself caring that blood was seeping into the fabric from the cuts that littered his skin. He could wash the blanket later. He looked so frail, wrapped only in the meager length of cloth with his bones jutting out underneath his skin, and Arthur held him closer, too.

“The others better appreciate you more when we get back,” he grumbled, knowing Kieran would humbly disagree with him, or maybe shyly agree with the assertion. He was too delicate to insist he be treated right, except when his life or his balls were in danger. “You’re a good man,” he admitted, and if there had been anyone listening to him, he wouldn’t have been so tender. It was embarrassing, showing the more sentimental side of himself.

Mary-Beth had been the one to see him leave, and she was the first person to see them when they arrived back at camp, covering her mouth with a gasp of horror while she rushed forwards to help him dismount. Clutching Kieran in his arms, he started marching towards the main house, ignoring while Bill and Javier worked to retrieve Colm from his horse, while John kept Blackjack and Branwen from rushing forwards to meet Kieran.

“Poor kid,” Sean exclaimed, rushing to assist them.

“Swanson is drunk,” Strauss said sharply, walking quickly in the opposite direction, “so I will gather my supplies.”

“Alright,” Arthur grunted. While arguably Swanson was the better doctor, when he was drunk, he couldn’t sew straight for shit, and Arthur would rather not take the risk that invariably came with a drunken Swanson. Strauss could be rough, but he wouldn’t accidentally kill him. “Just be quick about it,” he ordered.

As he carried him upstairs, people started following them, having noticed the commotion and decided following them was the best option. Moving through the crowd towards his bedroom, he growled, trying to shove them away.

“Everyone! Give them some space!” Hosea snapped, extending his arms to keep the crowd of people from getting too close. They had the decency to look properly scolded, and after mumbling apologies, most of them left, although Mary-Beth stayed, watching them with a worried expression. Turning around, his mouth was set in a grim line, the wrinkles around his face prominent. “I’ll keep everyone away,” he promised softly, laying a hand on his shoulder.

“Thanks, Hosea,” he said gratefully.

Walking into the room and gently laying Kieran onto his bed, he stroked the man’s face, rubbing his thumb over a bruised cheekbone. Strauss dropped his medical kit onto Arthur’s nightstand, opening it swiftly and removing a bottle of alcohol, an embroidered handkerchief, a needle, and a spool of thread. “Some of these wounds are infected,” he pointed out, and Arthur’s jaw clenched.

“I’m smart enough to notice, Strauss,” he gritted out.

The man simply shrugged, not bothering to respond. Pouring alcohol onto the piece of cloth, he started wiping down the wounds on his torso, pus and blood coming off on the kerchief. Kieran was so exhausted he didn’t stir, although it must’ve been painful, and Strauss quickly finished cleaning his wounds, beginning the process of sewing the more severe injuries shut. He wasn’t the best doctor, but he had a steady hand, and stitching wounds was so simple even he couldn’t fuck up. “I may have to cauterize the wound on his stomach,” he warned, sounding almost wary.

“Anything you need to do to keep him alive,” Arthur insisted without hesitation. Kieran had been put through enough, but it wasn’t his time just yet, and Arthur needed to ensure he received his due appreciation. “I won’t have him dying on me, not after the hassle I went through to get him.”

There was more to it than that, of course.

Kieran had saved his life on multiple occasions, and he’d never properly thanked him for it. He had been the one watching his back at Colm’s cabin, and every major fight the gang had participated in afterwards. Meanwhile, Arthur knew that he’d bullied him in camp, calling him O’Driscoll and standing by while Bill threatened to cut his balls off, and yet he’d still chosen to save him.

Arthur felt like a damn _fool._

Strauss had managed to stop the bleeding without cauterizing the wound, but after it was stitched up, Arthur knew it would make a nasty scar. The other wounds for the most part didn’t go deep, and Arthur felt assured that it was because they were having enough difficulty getting information out of him that they expected it to take awhile.

“He _cannot_ continue to sleep next to the chickens,” Strauss said pointedly, and he agreed.

“He can sleep in my bed for the next couple a’ days,” Arthur offered immediately.

Humming, Strauss started packing his surgical instruments into his kit, fixing the hat on his head. “He’ll make it, I assure you,” the German man drawled, hand gripping the handle of his briefcase, “but I would advise you not excite him too much while he continues healing, Arthur Morgan.”

Arthur knew he was likely referencing scaring the poor fella’ to death, although he could never know with Strauss what he meant by anything, but a blush still rose to his face as he wrung his anxiously. Smiling smugly, Herr Strauss left his room, closing the door behind him softly, and Arthur was left alone with a sleeping Kieran Duffy.

———

The sun was setting by the time that Kieran woke from his long rest. Arthur had been reading a newspaper that John had picked up for him in town while the others celebrated the capture of Colm. He’d suddenly started stirring in his bed, blearily blinking his eyes open and squinting against the sun shining through the window.

Kieran glanced around the room before abruptly jerking upwards in the bed, eyes wide and frightened while his hand flew to the stitches in his stomach with a pained gasp. “This is your room, mister,” he sputtered, voice warbling while he tried to get up. Arthur placed a hand on his shoulder, gently guiding him back into a laying position, but he continued to protest. “I shouldn’t impose,” he slurred, “there’s, well, I didn’t say anything, and I need to explain—“

“Nothing to explain, Kieran,” Arthur interrupted, and Kieran’s mouth closed with a click as his crooked, pearly teeth clacked together. Eyes wide, he opened and closed his mouth like a fish, floundering for how to respond, and Arthur sighed, pinching his brow while he sat on the edge of his bed. “Everyone’s just happy that you’re back with us,” Arthur assured him, putting a comforting hand on his elbow to steady him, “and you’re alright to be here.”

Expression softening, the assurance made him marginally less tense, although he still looked awfully nervous, like Arthur was somehow trying to pull one over on him. Kieran couldn’t quite believe that they would care if he was gone. “Is that true?” He asked softly, and Arthur thought about making a joke about him taking care of the horses, or being a camp punching bag, but Kieran had always been nothing but genuine to any of them.

“You’ve grown on us,” Arthur confessed airily, trying to preserve the remaining shreds of his dignity. The way that Kieran’s body finally relaxed into the bed made it less important to him to maintain his stern reputation. “Think a whole lotta’ people woulda’ missed you if you hadn’t come back,” he continued, and after a beat he followed with, “Mister Van Der Linde.”

Kieran had blushed, mouth gaping, then burst into tears.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sad and still stuck on Chapter 2 of the game because it’s the last time everyone’s happy so here’s my two gay boys in the first part of a fix-it series.


End file.
